A Black Comedy
by DarknessOnTheEdgeOfTown
Summary: A new inmate is introduced to the Asylum and attracts the attention of the inmates. The chapters all start in the present tense and change to the past as a homage to "The Silence of the Lambs" in which the author does the same, for clarification
1. Chapter 1

—_Chapter One—_

_**THUNDER ROAD**_

ARKHAM ASYLUM is a grey building with black highlights running up and down it, accidently adding to the dour aesthetic. A large black gate with an electrical current running through it covers the main entrance of the asylum, a long winding path that leads to another set of gates. Around the hundred acre land is a dull grey electrified fence, twenty feet or so high. The building itself is several floors high, at least fifteen, though it is also a very slim looking building. Classically gothic.

Ms. Miller, the secretary, sleepily answered the phone as it buzzed clinically next to her. Her well manicured hands wrapped around the receiver and she raised it to her ear, pushing aside he brown hair. The buzz seemed to continue a moment after she picked up the phone.

"_Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane_, Ms. Miller speaking, how can I help you? Ah, hello, Officer Deacons." She typed a code into a computer and trailed her finger along the screen, searching for a name. "Yes, yes. Carlyle, Flint. You're early. I'll buzz you in." she hung up quickly and pressed down on a button under her desk. A sharp beep was heard and then a click as the electronic door in front of her opened with a hydraulic hiss.

Officer Deacons walked in with a military stance and a firm expression plastered on his face which was creased with experience. He wore the standard leather body armour that all Arkham guards wore; a navy blue with black straps and a stun gun strapped to the right thigh. Trailing behind Deacons was the new inmate that Ms. Miller had mentioned. _Carlyle, Flint_. His wrists were handcuffed together, as were his feet, both of which were connected by a long line of links.

Carlyle was a fairly tall man whose face was covered in age and scars. His eyes had clouded over to make them a misty white colour, reminiscent of gone-off milk. His nose protruded violently from his aged face and hooked slightly over his thin blue lips, casting a cruel shadow down his chin. His body was vaguely skeletal and he looked even thinner because of the baggy orange jumpsuit which was draped over him. _010994_ was printed in black letters over his heart.

"You can take him on through." Ms. Miller said and signalled to a thick door to her right. It too hissed violently as the two men walked through it and down a long concrete corridor. A red line ran along the floor, dividing it in two. Everyone had to keep to the left o as to avoid congestion. Not that many inmates ever walked the corridors together or in groups. Flint was pushed forward by Deacons who constantly kept a firm eye on him and his hand above his stun gun. They waited outside the office of Warden Jeremiah Arkham's office after Deacons knocked.

"Come in," said the Warden from inside.


	2. Chapter 2

—_Chapter Two—_

_**DANCING IN THE DARK**_

The Warden's office is a small, square room with grey walls and a hardwood floor shined to perfection. The lights are fairly low, probably so the light doesn't reflect in the floor's sheen. There are no pictures on the wall, just an old tattered note in a glass frame written by his ancestor and founder of the Asylum, Amadeus Arkham. The note is almost illegible and is a scrap of his journal. At the back of the room—in front of a large window split up into squares by black lead— is a mahogany desk, varnished to look just as reflective as the floor. On it are files and papers, a phone and a computer. Jeremiah Arkham sits behind it looking dull.

"Come in," he said, looking at the door. As Deacons came in leading Carlyle the Warden feigned surprise. "Ah. You have a gift for me?" Deacons nodded.

"Yes, sir. Just arrived this minute. Should I wait outside, or—"

"Oh no. It's better you stay, I think. I've read his file and I know what he's… _capable _of. It's better you stay."

Deacons once again nodded and guided Carlyle into a chair in front of the desk with a firm grip on his shoulder. Arkham did not rise to meet nor even make much eye contact. Deacons had found on the ride to the Asylum that eye contact with Carlyle was indeed a very queer thing. When he looked into his icy blue eyes he immediately went rigid and sat upright, his own eyes bulging. There was a faint acrid taste in his throat and he found it difficult to swallow. Not to mention the coldness that engulfed his heart and travelled around in his blood. Carlyle had tilted his head and when he looked away Deacons felt normal again, if not a little nauseous.

"Carlyle, I—"

"Call me Flint."

"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you." Arkham looked somewhat worried for his safety and shot a quick glance to Deacons who was prepping himself for an outburst. Flint's cold eyes suddenly caught the Warden's and for a moment he had total control. Arkham went bolt upright in his chair and made a short gasping sound, as if short on air. His face turned red yet his blood ran cold in his veins.

"Stop—" he choked. Deacons, recognising what was happening from his previous experience, put a firm hand on Carlyle's shoulder and squeezed a warning. Carlyle simply blinked and the Warden seemed to drop down into a slump. Arkham rubbed his neck with his and gave Deacons a quizzical glance of terror and confusion. He was too shocked to bring it up again. "Carlyle, let's cut to the chase here, shall we? I know the things you've done; I know why you've been committed to my Asylum. And let me tell you," he took a short break and took a sip of water from a tumbler next to his computer. "I find it _disgusting_. I've seen things happen in this institution which could kill a man with shock. I've heard of things even worse. But you…" he paused again, trying to grasp for a phrase strong enough to display his utter displeasure and contempt. "You've _crossed a line_. The things you've done to women, done to children for that matter! It- it makes my blood curdle."

"Thank you." Carlyle said coolly and in his usual monotonous way.

"Get him out of here!" the Warden barked at Deacons and turned around to look out of his large window. "And make sure I _never _have to see or hear from him again!"

Deacons could feel the rapture in Arkham's voice and swiftly pulled Carlyle to his feet and ushered him toward the door. Carlyle thought about staring through Deacons' eyes and freezing his soul but decided to leave the fun for later. 


	3. Chapter 3

—_Chapter Three—_

_**DEVILS & DUST**_

Flint Carlyle's cell is incredibly non-descript. It is 4X4 metres and freezing cold. The walls are made of rotting concrete and are pathetically padded with faded yellow material which serves as no protection to the concrete beneath. The floor is the same. There is a mattress on a steel frame and a small porcelain toilet and sink. There is no soap.

Deacons pushed Carlyle inside after removing his cuffs. Being cautious not to make eye contact again he said:-

"Carlyle, you'll be staying here for the foreseeable future. It's the _maximum_ security wing. You're joining the likes of The Joker, The Riddler, Scarecrow and Two-Face. You have heard of them, right?"

Flint nodded very slowly, completely unperturbed by the mention of his fellow inmates.

"I'd expect no less." Flint said calmly. "I have, after all, done some very serious things haven't I?" he seemed to be gloating about his crimes. Deacons shook his head, trying not to look as uncomfortable as he felt.

"I, uh, I wouldn't know, Carlyle. I was told _not _to read your file. I have to remain objective in my treatment towards you."

"Oh, well, let's see…" Flint held his index finger to his mouth to show he was trying to remember something. "_First_ I killed a woman on the street by strangling her with her bra strap. That was when I was young and _boring_ though. I once kidnapped a small boy and fed him to my dog." Deacons was gagging and trying to mask the fact. "Should I continue, or—?"

"Okay, okay, cut it out. I don't wanna hear anymore from you, understand?" Flint nodded gently and sat down on his bed, his back rigid and straight. His eyes were firing beams of blue across at the wall in front of him and he refused to blink for the whole time Deacons was in there. "I'll be referring you to Officer Cash, alright? He's in charge of this wing. This is the last time we'll see other, Carlyle. _Try _to behave yourself." And with that, Deacons slammed and locked the thick iron door, cutting Carlyle off from the outside.

The lights snapped off at _9pm _and left the entire floor (and the cells in it) in total darkness. Voice echoed through the hollow corridor and made their ways into Carlyle's cell. The first voice he recognised from the _Gotham News At 10_, former district attorney Harvey Dent, 'Two-Face' in the tabloids.

"You got caught finally! We've been reading about you. Pretty sick stuff, you know?"

"Oh yes. I can't find an _explanation _for your homicidal tendencies," The Riddler interjected. "And trust me, I've been trying to!"

"You'll die in here!" The Scarecrow's voice hissed into Carlyle's ears. Poison seemed to follow it. Carlyle held a hand to his mouth, coughed slightly, and resumed lying down, flat on his back and staring up at the black ceiling. "You'll die of _fear_."

"Who caught you?" The Joker's shrill voice barked from somewhere close to Carlyle's cell. "I heard Gordon and a few of his team lassoed you in!" There was a hint of mockery in his tone. "Never come face-to-face with _the bat_, eh?" he let out a guttural laugh and by the sounds of it blood may have come up with it. "I hate to say it but Crane _is _right… you'll die in here!"


	4. Chapter 4

—_Chapter Four—_

_**BADLANDS**_

The _exercise programme_ in the Asylum is a very misleading name. In fact, it is a room about the size of a small town hall and inside it are 2 armchairs, 2 deck chairs and a small round table made of clear plastic. Inmates are free to walk around the hall and "bond" with one another. Things work differently in Arkham.

It was Flint who was the last to enter the exercise hall. He was calmly pushing his hair backwards and then he straightened out his loose jumpsuit. It hung pathetically off him and the guards looking at him were reminded of when a duvet falls too far into its cover. The entire room seemed to come to a standstill and a deathly silence fell over it as Carlyle's wraithlike presence became known. Two-Face and Scarecrow were sat at the small round table discussing politics. The Riddler was reclining in a deckchair with his eyes shut securely as he struggled to solve a mental puzzle that he had created. The Joker simply stood against a wall with one foot propped up against it. A deck of cards spun and twisted from one white hand to another. He was grinning a foul grin that showed off his murky yellow teeth.

The two guards who stood in their white scrubs looked at each other cautiously and then split up. One walked around the back of the room next to Two-Face and Scarecrow while the other walked around the front, near Carlyle. The silence soon faded away and the inmates resumed their activities. With the exception of The Joker whose green, bloodshot eyes never wavered from Carlyle's.

"Come here, little boy." The Joker whispered to himself and stifled a quick snigger. From his deckchair, The Riddler's eyes snapped open and he looked from The Joker to Carlyle with a nervous sweat rolling down his neck and back. He leaned forward so his elbows were balanced on his knees and he silently prayed that Carlyle would not go near The Joker.

"Flint." Said Carlyle approaching The Joker, his hand outstretched as a sign of mock friendship. "It's nice in here, huh?" The Joker laughed. Or coughed. Perhaps both. It was Carlyle's understanding that if he were to survive in the Asylum walls he would have to make _friends_ and fast. The Joker seemed like a good place to start.

"I know _all _about you. Heheh." Giggled The Joker sadistically. "You've done some fairly tame things, haven't you?"

"Tame?" Carlyle asked with genuine confusion, the first time his voice had trailed from its usually ice-cold tone.

"Tame, yes. I heard you stabbed a child in the back. _I _gassed an entire Kindergarten! That's roughly thirty kids, in case you were wondering. There's certain rules in this place, Flint." The Joker turned and coughed into his palm. A single fleck of blood cascaded down from his lips and splashed in a small pool of crimson on his bone-white palm. He didn't deliberate much over it and continued his staring contest with his new _friend_. "You see, Arkham Asylum works on a hierarchy. At the top you have the worst crimes and at the bottom… we have you. You ask any of these guys," he threw a casual thumb across the room. "And they'll claim to be on top. But it's me on top, understand? It's me. Don't forget it." He looked around the room with his dark green eyes, smiling for no reason at the inmates before him. "You fought The Batman yet?"

"I've not had the pleasure." Flint replied mechanically. Most people who talk to The Joker fall to their knees and weep because of his reputation and his appearance and his general attitude. But Flint… Flint grew _bored_. A dull thumping pain hammered into the back of his skull and in the same way a black cloud rolls in front of a yellowing moon, his eyes misted over and turned into a dirty white. They targeted The Joker's eyes and gazed through them. The Joker stared back and revelled in the fact that Carlyle's usually fatal stare had no effect on him. Carlyle was confused when his eyes faded back to normal.

"Mistake." The Joker muttered and shuffled over to the table to join Two-Face and Scarecrow who seemed less than welcoming.


	5. Chapter 5

—_Chapter Five—_

_**OUTSIDE LOOKING IN**_

The interview rooms in the Asylum are just a bit bigger than the cells and certainly more luxurious, for want of a better word. They have clinical white walls with a plastic table in the middle on which a tape recorder sits, nonchalantly spinning its tape. There is also a mirror against one wall, a large mirror, but it isn't a two-way mirror that cops use to spy on _the usual suspects_.

"This is Dr. Young with patient _010994_, Flint Carlyle. How're feeling today, Flint?"

Carlyle rubbed his forehead and then massaged either side of the bridge of his thin nose. His eyes were a pleasant blue today—like the soothing colour of some topical ocean. He looked dead at the doctor who gave him a curious smile, yet inside she was burning with predetermined hatred towards her patient, as was most of the staff (and inmates) at the Asylum.

"I'm feeling… _stable_, doctor."

"Stable?" she repeated for clarification.

"Stable." He confirmed.

"You mean you feel calm? You feel well?"

"I feel stable." He once again murmured and then resumed the caressing of his nose. He seemed to be in a bad mood, as if he had a headache. The kind of mood where you don't have time for anybody and everything takes twice as long as it should. Dr. Young composed herself and took a deep breath, looking down at her chart as she did. She made a quick note and looked back at Carlyle.

"Flint, I wonder… I wonder if you'd feel comfortable having a discussion with me?"

He nodded grimly.

"For the purposes of the tape recorder, he nodded." She nervously touched her face. "Flint, if you can, I would like you to tell me, in your own words, what motivated you to commit such atrocities. Can you do that?" He seemed to be chewing the inside of his mouth. When he stopped he said:-

"Motivated?"

Dr. Young was concerned they were about to engage in another question-and-answer battle so decided to quickly elaborate on her question. "Yes. For example, most robbers steal out of desperation. Many murders are crimes of passion or _revenge_. Was it something similar that set you off on your…" she groped for a word. She searched her mind for an eternity before "spree" came out of her lips. "…your spree?" Carlyle, having been asked this question many times before, rolled his eyes and his head backwards and let out a long, bored exhale.

"I'm _insane_, doctor. I'm in your Asylum. Isn't that enough of an answer for you?"

"You seem very defensive, Flint. Have I upset you? Or are you just insecure?"

"You're trying to provoke me, doctor." He said dryly.

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, you're young. Young by name, young by nature, I suppose. Also, I'm willing to bet that this is your first _real_ patient interview, am I right?" her silence confirmed it. "Right. So you think if you land yourself with a really, _really _bad guy then you'll look impressive to your fellow 'doctors'. It so happens that you're in luck because _I_ am a really, _really_ bad guy." Dr. Young coughed into her fist and adjusted her sitting position, not really knowing how to respond. Suddenly, she felt overwhelmed and drowning in the sea of her own profession.

"Mr. Carlyle…" she cleared her throat and managed to compose herself. She resurfaced and could breath again, no longer drowning. "…this interview session is _me _asking _you _questions, understand? Not the other way around. Save your questions for Nygma." She quickly regretted that comment as the mention of other patients was strictly forbidden during interviews unless it was directly linked. Also, if Flint complained (or indeed The Riddler), she could lose her job seeing as her comment could be construed as mockery.

"Interview over." Carlyle said firmly and sat back in his chair, waiting to bed led away by Officer Cash.


End file.
